


Quo Fata Vocant (Whither the Fates Summon)

by Winklepicker



Series: Quo Fata Vocant [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Crack, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 18:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winklepicker/pseuds/Winklepicker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The tiniest things can change the course of history. But some things just have to happen, like two men who absolutely must meet in all versions of the universe.<br/>The way they meet is a little different and so, like a small and hopefully non-lethal landslide, everything after is just a little different as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quo Fata Vocant (Whither the Fates Summon)

Funny--all those little things in life, those tiny moments. Some seemingly meaningless, insignificant; some groundbreaking, heartbreaking, huge despite appearances. The little points in the stream of time where worlds diverge and possibilities multiply.  
  
That is a lot of wordage for what essentially comes down to: sometimes life is fucking weird.  
  
When the insurgents opened fire on the street, John flung himself down behind an already crumbling wall, his elbow crunching painfully onto gravel. He slammed his head onto his forearm gasping at the sharp pain and inhaling the fine dusty dirt deep into his lungs. He coughed as he tried to collect what little saliva he could to get rid of the dirt clinging to his throat and mouth. He spat on the baking earth and reached for his Browning.  
  
All around were the shouts of the rest of the Shiners. The bloody regiment wouldn't have been deployed to this god forsaken hell hole if not for a quirk of fate and a dented can of tuna. But that's another story and not a particularly interesting one.  
  
In another 'nother story, two hours before, a stray dog pissed against that crumbling wall. As it trotted off, its paw crunched the gravel dislodging a particularly sharp rock that tumbled away onto the road. In that story, when John flung himself down, his elbow hit the gravel, which shifted obligingly to accommodate him. He reached back, drew his gun and raised himself up to fire over the wall. An action that gave an insurgent bullet a happy little target on John’s shoulder. I don't know much about that particular story. Perhaps John was invalided home to London and given an army pension or something. Maybe found a flat to share with someone taller than him—which admittedly was a lot of people. Who knows? That is not this story.  
  
In this story, John is reaching for his gun and is still coughing up dust. The insurgent bullet that so eagerly tore through his shoulder muscles in that other story was busy harassing some bricks in this one.  
  
He pulled out the gun and rolled onto his back. The pale sky was flecked with cirrus horsetails up high. John briefly lost himself wondering what it was like up there before he realised the gunfire had stopped. Now just the shouts of men bounced off the stone walls of the town.  
  
John rolled onto his stomach and crawled to the edge of the wall to peek out at the road. He could hear fresh gunfire from further out, maybe five or six streets away. He checked the distance to a pile of rubble across the road that could provide some shelter and made a run for it. No shots rang out, no yelling, nothing. Keeping his weapon low, John cautiously made his way toward the sound of renewed fighting.  
  
He found his team in the next block. John ran along a narrow alley between two buildings towards the gunfire. Across the road two Shiners were holed up in a shell of a house, firing from the maw of a shattered window. Peeking around the side of the building, John saw three of the lads one street down making their way across to come up behind the building John was at. Shouts were coming from all sides and he could hear shots coming from the doorway of the house he was beside. He could see the concrete around the shelled out house opposite was receiving a battering as the Shiners at the window ducked down and disappeared.  
  
John backed up onto the wall in the alley. He checked his gun. He knew it was fine but the quirk stayed with him. He had to check. He would signal the boys across the road to stop firing and try to make his way into the house. He peeked around the corner just in time to see the grenade hit the doorframe to his left.  
  
  
-oOo-  
  
  
Sherlock Holmes was bored. He'd tested the samples three times over. Of course it was the brother. Now he was back in his flat sprawled on the sofa staring at the patch on the ceiling that looked a bit like Canada. He was thinking about the latest poisoning case and why Lestrade hadn’t come to him yet. He pouted and huffed in frustration. He’d predicted Garry, or was it Gerald, would be asking him for help around now and if they found another body, he’d be coming round straight away. No sooner had he rolled over to face the back of the sofa when the doorbell went.  
Sherlock leapt off the sofa like a tangled giraffe and trip-hopped over to press the button on the intercom. He left the front door ajar, smoothed his jacket and hair, and strode over to the window, posing casually as though he hadn’t a care in the world.  
  
DI Lestrade burst through the door.  
“Where?” Sherlock asked.  
“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”  
“What’s new about this one?”  
“You know how they never leave notes?”  
“Yeah.”  
“This one did. Will you come?”  
“Is Anderson on forensics tonight?”  
“He won’t be your assistant.”  
“I shouldn’t think so.”  
“Will you come?”  
“I’ll take a cab. I’ll be right behind you.”  
“Thank you.”  
  
In a different story, Sherlock would perhaps have been in a much nicer flat, having found an intriguing and compact flat mate to share that great place Mrs Hudson had on offer on Baker St. In that story, Sherlock may have showed off a little more in front of Gerald, or was it George. He probably would have twirled about elegantly in his favourite coat and thrown on his favourite scarf, the one that set off his eyes. Maybe he would have invited his new flat mate to help him at the crime scene and tested the man’s character on the cab ride over by being his usual acerbic self. Perhaps in that cab, his non-existent heart would have fluttered ever so slightly when his new friend told him he was amazing. Perhaps. But that didn’t happen, that’s another story. Stop getting side-tracked, we’re wasting time.  
  
In this story, Sherlock forgot his scarf altogether and spent the cab ride thinking about serial suicides.  
  
Quite a while later, Gordon... George... Glen? was calling for an ambulance as Sherlock writhed in pain on the floor of Roland Kerr Further Education College. Sally Donovan spared him an incalculable look as she followed the officers and a very naughty cabbie out the door.  
  
  
-oOo-  
  
  
John stared up at the perforated ceiling tiles. The young nurse who had given him his sedative was brushing an alcohol swab over the back of his hand. He felt his skin cool as he heard the crinkle of the IV catheter being opened.  
  
‘Alright, my love,’ the elder nurse leaned into John’s eye-line and gave him a warm smile, ‘We’re going to pop in your IV line. You’re going to feel a little sting, okay?’  
  
John blinked slowly and was almost certain he murmured his assent out loud. He also tried to smile back but was less certain he had managed to lift the corners of his mouth.  
  
He felt the alien pressure of the needle entering his vein. The younger nurse taped the catheter on.  
  
John was distracted once again by the ceiling tiles. He was convinced the holes were moving though perhaps only when he was looking directly at them. This led him to dart his eyes to the side then dart them quickly back up to the ceiling to see if he could catch them staying still.  
  
‘Okay, love. We’re going to push through the anaesthetic now. Soon have that shrapnel out of you. Can you count backwards from ten for me?’  
  
John felt a ripple of cold spread out from his hand and up his arm. Suddenly numbers were incredibly hilarious as he giggled out a short countdown that started and ended at, 'ten'.  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
Sherlock Holmes drew a pained breath as he blinked his eyes against the fluorescent nightmare above him. He could not understand how any ill person was supposed to recover beneath these flickering hellish torture devices for the eyes.  
  
He reached blindly for the bed controller, cursing when he couldn’t find it. He rolled onto his side and, propped up on his elbow, reached the button to raise the bed. This rather energetic series of movements was followed by a wave of nausea that had him flop back down breathing deep and trying to settle the feeling that his entire stomach wanted to flee the premises.  
  
As he straightened he caught sight of another bed across from his own. Trust his brother to prolong his torture by not even providing him a private room. That chipped paint on the door frame had NHS written all over it.

Still, another human in the room would at the very least provide a few moments of distraction. Sherlock wondered vaguely how long he would be forced to stay here. He'd felt worse than this coming down off better pills, he was quite certain he would recover faster were he at home and perhaps given another case to occupy his mind.  
  
As he pondered whether he could convince Grant... Glen... Lestrade to break him out of here, a cough and the sound of crisp hospital sheets rustling broke through his thoughts.

Sherlock looked over to the figure in the other bed. The man was trying to sit up, much as Sherlock had tried to minutes before. Though this man, with his greying blond hair sticking up ridiculously on the right side of his head, seemed to be making better progress with getting his bed raised and a pillow tucked behind his back than Sherlock had.

Sherlock refused to feel inferior, instead convincing himself that he had come close to death and what had this man done? Probably had his tonsils out. Anyone could have sat up easily after having their tonsils out. Try being almost killed by a serial killing cabbie and then sit up, Sherlock thought, arguing as though the man across had sat up so easily for the sole purpose of irritating Sherlock. It was inexcusable.  
  
Sherlock scrunched his mouth in the most petulant of moues and harrumphed himself back to a supine state.  
  
'Oh. Hello.'  
  
Oh, hello? Oh, hello! What the hell was that supposed to mean? Oh, hello indeed. Sherlock turned his head to scowl at the man. What greeted his eyes was an open honest-to-goodness grin of lunacy and blue blue blue blue eyes like... like drops of blue ink on white marble. Sherlock winced internally but excused his weak simile, blaming it on the whole being poisoned business. The man continued to grin like a loon before hiccuping and bursting into tears.

Sherlock's eyes darted about wanting to look at anything other than the crying man. He was unsure what to do with himself so he rolled over and pretended to go back to sleep. Perhaps if he ignored the man he would go away, or at least stop crying. That was just downright odd and at the very least, embarrassing for both of them. It certainly was not very British.  
  
'Sorry.' Sherlock heard the soggy sound of nose blowing. 'I don't usually weep for no reason. Must be the drugs.' The man gave a short giggle. 'I don't even feel sad about anything, I've no idea why I'm crying. Must be the drugs.' He repeated quietly, as though trying to convince himself more than Sherlock.  
  
Something in the man's voice, vulnerability perhaps, or kindness, made Sherlock want to roll back over to face him. Well, that and he wanted to see the man's eyes again. He quite liked them. Of course, that was not an admit-able desire. Instead he sighed the most put upon sigh he could muster without making himself feel queasy again and rolled over.  
  
The greying blondy man smiled at him again. What on earth did this man want with him?  
  
'So, what are you in for?'  
  
Sherlock stared at the man. His thoughts raced as fast as they could in his still slightly addled state. Right, thought Sherlock. Conversations, I can do those. He cleared his throat and prepared to be relatively normal.

He came up with about a dozen answers to the question. Most of them caustic, designed to cut off interaction at the bud. Some were amusing, intended to make him appear normal. Strangely, none of them appealed as he stared at the man's eyes and thought about the colour of the Mediterranean in those ubiquitous postcards. Instead he found himself, without any right of appeal, looking the man right in his deep blue blue blue blue eyes and telling him the truth.  
  
'Poisoned by a serial killer. You?'  
  
The greying blond man raised his eyebrows and mouthed, wow. 'Impressive.'  
  
'Yes, I thought so,' Sherlock agreed.  
  
'I had some shrapnel removed from my thorax and one piece that was a little too close for comfort to my femoral artery.'  
  
This time it was Sherlock's turn to be impressed. He opened and closed his mouth like a drowning fish for a few moments then berated himself for the fool he was. He pressed his lips into a thin line and activated full deduction mode, narrowing his eyes and scanning every inch of the man he could see. Hospital gowns never did anything to help matters, though the manner in which the man constantly adjusted and straightened the material was a mine of information.  
  
'John Watson.' The man now identified as John Watson half heartedly raised his hand in a small hail.  
  
Sherlock cocked his head. 'Soldier,' he said. It wasn't a question.  
  
'Ye-es?'  
  
  
'Yes.' Sherlock nodded sagely. A rather awkward silence ensued wherein Sherlock continued staring intently at John and John darted his eyes back and forth between Sherlock and the door, confident that he may, very soon, need to make a run for it.  
John was just about to break the silence to ask if everything was alright when Sherlock beat him to it.  
  
'Afghanistan or Iraq?'  
  
'You what?' John frowned.  
  
'Afghanistan or Iraq? You're just back from military service, clearly, since you've had shrapnel removed. The way you move and hold yourself also points to military training. You've got ridiculous tan lines but not from sunbathing, obviously, as they are at your wrists and neck. There are only a certain amount of military operations to which British troops have been deployed recently in which a soldier, an officer in fact, would find themselves in a situation where they'd eventually end up back home requiring complicated surgery to dig out shrapnel from a blast aimed at foreign forces. I am singling out two of the most likely candidates hence, Afghanistan or Iraq?'  
  
John frowned then broke out into a perplexed grin. He shook his head, 'That was amazing.' He chuckled and murmured wow under his breath, shaking his head again.  
  
Sherlock blinked rapidly, not quite understanding why he was not being treated with more suspicion. 'Amazing?' He ventured, not trusting his own hearing in the matter as no one had ever used that word to describe him unless it was to express surprise at his apparent lack of sociability.  
  
John's head snapped up from where he'd been chuckling toward his bare feet, his face an incredulous mask. 'Yeah, of course it was. I mean, yeah, pretty obvious most of it, but that was, really... it was Afghanistan by the way.'  
  
'Oh, right.' Sherlock nodded. 'Good,' he smiled in a way he hoped looked natural and personable. In reality he knew it in fact made him look like a predatory fish trying to lure in an unsuspecting morsel with promises of delights. He stopped smiling, deciding it was best not to pretend. John didn't seem like the sort to be taken in by false social niceties. Best to be up front about his nature from the beginning he thought. Immediately followed by the question, beginning of what?  
  
'So,' John pulled back his covers and gingerly swung his legs over the side, stretching his neck from shoulder to shoulder, 'tell me more about this serial killer.'  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
'I can't believe she thought that would be a good disguise.' John giggled.  
  
'You should have seen her sister.' Sherlock countered, then broke off into his own deep chuckle as John resumed his giggling. In the comfortable lull that followed, Sherlock tried to recall the last time he had laughed with someone. He could remember the last time he'd laughed _at_ someone—three weeks ago, at Mycroft—but _with_ someone?

A strange warmish fizzy feeling was happening somewhere around his neck and chest. He worried it might be a heart attack or a residual effect of the poison but it seemed to escalate only when John giggled, and that was downright bizarre.  
  
Aurally induced sensations aside, Sherlock felt rather chuffed that someone was actually interested in his deductions let alone entire cases. All signs were pointing to a compatibility of sorts and if this man was willing to listen to him talk for longer than the usual twenty seconds he really must take advantage of the situation. This possibly involved calling up Mrs Hudson to see if that flat on Baker Street was still available and somehow convincing this fellow to cough up for half the rent. That way, he could tell Mycroft to bugger off with his offers of an allowance in return for certain favours.  
  
Sherlock reached beneath the covers on his bed, curled his fingers around his phone and switched it to silent.  
  
'Do you have a phone I can borrow? I've no signal.'  
  
Looking at the landline between the beds, John opened his mouth to speak when Sherlock pre-empted him.  
  
'I prefer to text.'  
  
John shuffled around, reaching behind him for his mobile. 'Here you go,' he said, tossing it over to Sherlock's bed.  
  
Sherlock caught it, slightly raising an eyebrow at this willingness to hand a personal phone over to a stranger. 'Thank you.' He typed out " _Say yes. SH_ ", sent it and chucked the phone back to John. His own phone vibrated next to this thigh.  
  
Sherlock lay back against his pillow and folded his hands over his chest. He rolled through his accounts as they currently stood and considered Mrs Hudson's advertised rate in his calculations. His short fall, he was certain, could be picked up by the current rates of an average army pension leaving plenty for moderate daily needs. Yes. Yes, John Watson would do very well indeed. With their combined funds they could afford Mrs Hudson's lovely flat, Sherlock would not be stuck with someone he could barely stand and John could stay in London. Excellent. So, it was decided then.  
  
Having solved that issue he closed his eyes and smiled to himself as he relaxed. He blinked his eyes open again when he realised he'd forgotten one slight detail in his marvellous plan. He should perhaps consult the man in question.  
  
'Tell me,' Sherlock asked turning his head toward John, 'how do you feel about the violin?'  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
  
  
It was a Monday. It was raining. And not the sort of rain that you get about in and everything's fine. This was pelting rain, bucketing rain, outside-for-ten-seconds-and-you're-soaked-to-the-skin rain. Still, for Sherlock it was a wonderful joyous day, for today was discharge day. He was almost vibrating with impatience as he signed the last of a wad of forms and gave them all a cursory flick through. Satisfied, he announced he was done and slapped the clipboard onto the counter of the nurse's station. The scary looking one with the anomalously pleasant manner and Aberdeen accent dumped a stack of patient files on the desk and picked up the clipboard.  
  
Without looking up he said in a voice made monotonous by routine, 'This all looks fine, Mr Holmes. You've got your prescription from Doctor Widjaja? Good. You take care then. There's a taxi phone downstairs near the reception window if you need it. Cheerio.'  
  
The nurse sat down at the computer oblivious to Sherlock having wandered off as soon as he'd said "this all looks fine".  
  
Sherlock futilely turned up his coat collar against the rain. His oily, hospital-chic curls were quickly plastered down while he flagged a cab. By the time he'd got one and climbed in, his coat felt about ten times heavier and he was shivering with cold.  
  
'Baker Street, please. Two two one.'  
  
Sherlock could barely sit still. He checked his phone again. Still no word from John on the flat share. He'd been discharged three days earlier leaving Sherlock bored and unexpectedly melancholy at his absence. He'd given him enough clues hadn't he? Asked him if he wanted to come see the flat, told him he had a website, cryptically left his number on John's phone. What more could he possibly have done? If John couldn't work out that the number on Sherlock's website was the same as the number he'd sent a text to and therefore the text was clearly directed at John, then perhaps Sherlock didn't want to live with the stupid man anyway.  
  
Sherlock panicked. He should have just been more normal, dammit. Why didn't he just give John his number instead of playing these stupid games? Why did he have to be such a bloody show-off? What if he never saw John again? Sherlock stopped panicking. He'd sent that text from John's phone to himself, he had John's number. There was no need to panic.

Sherlock panicked. He couldn't just text John out of the blue and explain he'd sneakily taken his number under false pretences of needing his phone in order to set up an elaborate and ultimately stupid intelligence test. That would sound utterly mad. Or would it? Maybe it would sound endearing. Sherlock stopped panicking. Endearing, yes. Sherlock could do endearing, he was fairly sure he'd perfected the art to deal with mummy.  
  
'Oh god.' He dropped his head into his hands.  
  
'Two two one, Baker Street.'  
  
Sherlock looked up, taking in the pleasing uniformity of the street. He paid the driver and got out, stepping straight up to his ankles in a puddle. He sighed as the taxi drove off, splashing the water further up his calves. He waded up onto the pavement and pressed the doorbell of two two one B, wondering briefly why on earth the external door was marked with a B when there was an A in there as well.  
  
The door was opened by an elderly woman in a purple dress. When she saw Sherlock her face lit up with a warm smile. Before he knew it, Sherlock was engulfed in a hug.  
  
'It's so wonderful to see you again, Sherlock dear. I was so surprised when you called about the flat.'  
  
Sherlock shifted, uncomfortable with the general chit-chat but was determined not to scare Mrs Hudson off the idea of having him as a tenant. 'Yes, well, it just so happened I need a new place and then I saw your advert.' There, that should suffice for conversation, he thought. 'May I take a look at it.'  
  
'Actually, dear there's someone already looking at it. Would you like a cuppa while you wait. He shouldn't be long, been up there for a while now'  
  
Sherlock frowned, annoyed that anyone else should dare look at what was clearly his. Suddenly there were footsteps coming down the stairs. Sherlock stared agog at the man walking down who gave him a wide grin as he descended. The man stopped two steps from the bottom, raised his phone and pressed on the screen.  
  
Moments later, Sherlock's phone pinged. He swiped across the screen and stared at the message he'd just received.  
  
Sender: John Watson  
  
_Yes_

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked this. My plan is to make this a series and do a slightly different version of each episode but it will be slow going for me.  
> The title comes from the motto of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. The Shiners was their nickname.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'Quo Fata Vocant (Whither the Fates Summon)' by Winklepicker](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7327366) by [missmuffin221](https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmuffin221/pseuds/missmuffin221)




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